Cold Comfort
by Roadstergal
Summary: Comfort can be had from the unlikeliest of places.


The alcove was set directly between the sconces that illuminated the corridor, and if you hunkered back into it, you would be lost in its pocket of darkness. Or so Ginny hoped, as she sat in it, wiping her nose and stifling the occasional sob that worked its way out of her into the sleeve of her robe, which was getting somewhat stiff from serving double duty as a handkerchief. Yes, she was feeling sorry for herself. Still, she deserved this indulgence, didn't she? In Potions, earlier that day, her Clarity Concoction had come out a murky brown, rather than the clear black that the directions indicated, and she had to endure Snape's cutting comments about knowing better than to expect clarity of thought or action from a Gryffindor. The resulting loss of House points weighed heavily enough on her mind to make Charms absolutely impossible, and she felt like Seamus for the day, leaving the class with the scent of charred feathers in her robe and a disgustingly sympathetic look from Flitwick following her out. And.. well, she knew that her Thing, as she called it, not wanting to admit to such words as infatuation, hero-worship, let alone lust, for Harry Potter was not a Thing with a future in it, but it neverthless hurt to see him making eyes at Cho Chang and to hear him speaking distractedly to her, generic answers given to questions not really heard. So she had slipped out of the Hall and planted herself in the alcove to have a quiet cry. Crying is never quiet enough, though, and her sobs sounded unnaturally loud in her ears, bouncing off of the stone walls and, she was sure, reverberating straight into the Great Hall. She buried her face in the sleeve of her robe.  
  
*clop* *clop* *clop* - footfalls came her way. She quickly straightened and tried to push herself back into the shadow of the alcove.  
  
"Crabbe? Is that you? What are you bawling about, you great baby?"  
  
Oh, no, not Malfoy. Anyone but Malfoy.  
  
He stopped next to the alcove and peered into the shadow. Her red hair must be blazing out at him, she thought. She looked up from his polished leather shoes, up the impeccably creased slacks, to the slicked-back blonde hair and the upper lip that was currently peeling back into a sneer.  
  
"Ah, one of the Weasels," he said, in a voice dripping with contempt.  
  
"Weasley," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. His lip pulled farther back, if possible.  
  
"Any reason why you're blubbering in a corner, little girl? Other than just being a member of that shoddy excuse for a wizarding family, of course." She was in for it.  
  
"Nothing. Go away."  
  
Of course he wouldn't. Not when there was sport to be had at another's expense. "Pathetic. You can only dream of being a real wizarding family, you poor shabby sorts. It would almost be better to be Muggle than to live in that filthy hovel. It isn't fit to be a compost heap for Malfoy Manor."  
  
She thought of home, then, that 'filthy hovel' - which was disorganized, but thanks to Molly's tireless efforts, always clean - and such fun to play in, with so many brothers running around, always doing something they shouldn't but can't resist, and the pigs, and the ducks...  
  
"And your pathetic excuse for a meddling father, too poor to buy you books, or real robes; look," he started to grab a handful of her robe, then stopped, as if it would be too distasteful to even touch them - "secondhand tattered hand-me-downs from, which of your brothers? Or did they make the rounds through all of them?" A hand went to his crisp, clean robes. "My father can afford - The Best. Not that you'd know what that was, you ratty little Weasel."  
  
No, she wouldn't know - and after seeing Lucius's cold, cruel eyes that day in the bookstore, and watched the utter lack of love that he displayed to his spoiled son, she was glad she didn't. Her own father's eyes sparkled with affection when she prattled on to him about how she spent her day, or how excited she was about going to Hogwart's, or.... and the oversized hand- me-down robe still smelled of Bill, the comforting earth-and-outdoors smell of her brother, bringing him back to her, for a moment. A ghost of a smile flitted across her face.  
  
Draco stopped short in his taunting. "Are you mental, Weasel? That Mudblood, bucktooth Granger girlfriend of yours must be having some strange effect."  
  
Yes, he was right; she should go talk to Hermione, vent her frustrations, instead of sniffling in a corner. That would be far more fun. She grinned brightly, hopped out of the alcove, and skipped down the corridor, leaving an utterly befuddled Draco in her wake.  
  
"I must be losing my touch," he growled. 


End file.
